THE GAY TEACHER
A man returns to the place where the hate of his childhood still echos through the halls

By S. Chet Sewell

In his novel "Angela’s Ashes," Frank McCourt writes, "Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood."

Mr. McCourt and I have something in common. He is a retired teacher. I am a beginning teacher in my third year with the Des Moines School District.

Apart from that, there is little else we have in common, except we both survived miserable childhoods. It's hard to believe that I, a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, grew up miserable. But this was an homosexual Iowan childhood, a most miserable existence.

The first inkling I had that I was bound for misery came when I was 4. It was a Sunday morning, and I awoke to the sounds of my mother’s angry voice. Rubbing my eyes, I stumbled down the hall to the dining room to hear what my mother was saying. The Des Moines Register lay on the table. Mother was using adjectives like "unnatural" and "sick." She was reacting to an article on the front page.

I hoisted myself into a chair to my knees so I could see the words my mother found so ugly. My brother leaned over me. Pointing to each word of the big, black headline, he read, "Two Men Ask Catholic Church to Marry." There were photos under the headline. I looked at those two men smiling back at me and thought without hesitation, "What's wrong with that?"

Then I looked at my mom. For the first time in my short existence, I felt unsafe. I dared not speak my feelings. What was this thing that made me not recognize the woman who loved me unconditionally? The words she used had no meaning for me. I could only understand that these two men liked being with each other, just like Mom and Dad.

I now know I felt different than everybody else. There was a realization that I had always felt this way. But in the wake of my mother's reaction, I began to doubt. My primary caregiver, my safety net, my guide, was causing me tremendous self-doubt. I filed this memory away and hopped down off the chair to continue to explore the world around me.

I entered kindergarten the following fall at Stowe Elementary. My teacher was a pretty blonde, Miss Dew. She is still teaching at Stowe, but is now Mrs. McCormick. I would hope that if someone were to ask her about me, she would say I was an above average student who was socially well-adjusted.

I remember playing with the blocks, trucks and other "boy" toys. True to the male, I loved building towers and then destroying them with fires, floods or other such devastations.

But I also remember playing dress-up and house with the girls and enjoying it as much. At home I spent hours playing with my sister, Cody, and her Barbies. I was grappling with my sexuality. (This is where the music becomes sinister and frightening.)

Could I be homosexual? Nature? Nurture? Both? Or was I, as a 5-year-old, making a conscious choice that I would much prefer to be made fun of, ridiculed, denied privileges than follow the skewed norm established by my kind?

Was I choosing to be a victim even though I could help it? Or was this something that was as much a part of me as were my green eyes?

First grade was very similar; happy and serene. The words and concepts of sexuality were not in out vocabulary. As children, we seemed sexless. I could hold hands with other boys, where girlie clothes, pretend to be a fireman or a ballerina. But slowly, as I continued my 13-year career in Des Moines schools, these words and concepts would echo painfully in my ears.

THE WONDER YEARS

In second grade, I found I was still the only boy jumping rope, telling secrets around the corner and playing hand slapping games. The girls loved me. I was a natural comedienne. The boys, on the other hand, were beginning to think I was a sissy. The words came in the third grade. Mrs. Mayberry taught us to write in cursive, but it was Lonnie Davidson who taught the class the vocabulary he felt was synonymous with his classmate, Stacey. I was called "Gay," "Fag," "Queer," but my nickname, so affectionately called out to me by classmates, was "Homo." To them, I was homo, not Stacey, not Chet. My heart was ripped out every time that word was called. Later, as we began to learn about the black struggle for freedom, I identified so much with what Rosa Parks et. Al. Went through that I dreamed of a Martin Luther King who would come free me from my tormentors.

By fourth grade, I wanted to skip the next 10 years so I could be an adult. Adults never called me names. They treated me like they treated all the other kids. I loved all my teachers for this. I never once felt they hated me because I was different.

Now, in the teachers' lounge, the story may be different. I have often wondered what the Stowe staff said about the children when we were not around. I hoped that their private words were as sensitive and caring as the words they used with us. Surely they knew I was being tormented on a daily basis outside their hearing range, knew it was wrong and detrimental to my psyche, but they did very little to change attitudes.

At conferences that year, Mrs. McGrew told my mother I was playing too much with the girls. I was so embarrassed when my mom told me to play with the boys. It did not help. I only felt more isolated, abnormal and confused. They weren't trying to help me, they were trying to convert me.

Just last year, I saw Mrs. McGrew working at the Learning Post, her part-time job. I wanted to tell her I was no longer playing with girls, but for some reason, I didn't.

The last few years at Stowe had the older kids calling me names, too. I spent fifth grade wanting it to be the next year so the sixth graders would be gone. One sixth grade boy, in particular, scared me to death. Brian Christensen harassed me the entire year. After school I would walk down the steps to the crosswalk where Brian would be lying in wait.

"Hey, Queer!" he would call, "where's your boyfriend?"

Once, I pushed my way to the front of the crowd right behind the crossing guards, hoping he would not see me. Suddenly, he was behind me, poking me in the back.

"You know what we do with fags, homo?" he taunted. "We push them in front of cars so they die like worthless flies."

The big crossing guard in front of me turned around and winked. He whispered, "You're gonna die, Homo."

Just then the guard lowered his arm and moved as Brian shoved my back. I stumbled into the street. Frozen with fear, I waited for impact. But instead of a car hitting me, I was tossed about by a bunch of chattering kids crossing the street. I looked up. The light had turned red, the cars had stopped, and from behind me I could hear hysterical laughter. Barely able to walk, I crossed the street and did not turn around.

"WE DON'T ALLOW FAGGOTS IN OUR SCHOOL"

Junior high students are the masters of cruelty. They take all the bigotry and ignorance in the world and turn it into a weapon to beat down individuality. Within the first week of seventh grade, there was Brian Christensen again. One day after school, as I was walking off the grounds of Goodrell Junior High, Brian and his gang confronted me.

"Hey, Homo," he yelled, "we don't allow faggots in our school." Then he pushed me hard.

I was scared for my life. Not knowing what to do, I crossed the street and began walking in the opposite direction of home. They continued to taunt me, yelling louder as the distance between us grew. I spent the rest of the year fleeing school as quickly as possible to avoid the inevitable.

I had very few friends in seventh grade. I did become friends with Jody Naples, but her boyfriend, Al Guilardo, harassed me. They would pass me in the hall holding hands.

"Hey, faggot! Out of my way," he yelled. "No. He's just a fag. Fag!"

"Al, please." I hid my pain so well my family had no idea of the hell I was experiencing. I was ashamed. Shamed into thinking I was a freak, and shamed by not wanting to destroy the image my family had of me.

In high school, the name calling became part of my daily routine. Get up, go to school, find my locker, get called a name, talk to a friend, walk to class, get called a name. I was the lead in the school play, which we performed at an all-school assembly. When I made my entrance, a voice from the balcony yelled, "Faggot!" It was routine.

There was a bright side. I met Sarah Holmes. She had a short hair cut and dressed just to the girlie side of where, in fashion, femininity and masculinity meet. She played softball and basketball, and was very intelligent in math and science. It would not be until our junior year that we felt safe enough to talk about our sexuality., Until then, I kept myself painfully hidden.

I look back and can't believe I didn't talk to someone. But who? Nobody spoke about it. Counselors and teachers talked to us abut racism, condoms, rape, cigarettes and drugs. Homosexuality was and is taboo. The only messages I got were negative. I was a bad person. I couldn't talk about it.

A visit to see my brother at the University of Iowa delivered the affirmation I had been aching for. Dan told the family he was gay. Mom asked him not to tell my sister and I, but he could not hold his tongue., He felt I was showing signs similar to those he had gone through growing up eight years ahead of me. He wanted to give me guidance. (Plus, he really needed a new toaster oven!)

My brother whom I loved and respected, a man studying to be a psychiatrist, no less was telling me my emotions were not sinful or wrong. "The choice," he said, "is not whether homosexuality is right or wrong, it is whether or not we choose to live in repression of our natural inclination or in affirmation of those god-given attributes."

For the first time in my life I felt truly alive. I was elated because I was not alone. I chose not to tell my mother that of her four sons, two were gay.

Mother was becoming increasingly suspicious of my frequent letters to him. She acted on her hunches and opened one. Later, she spoke to me alone. "I read your letter to Dan."

There was a pregnant pause as the ramifications of this act expressed itself in my wide open mouth. Then she yelled.

"You're a Goddamn faggot!"

Each word stung as if she were slapping me. Pandemonium erupted. Mom and I were yelling and weeping. Within minutes I ran out the door, my feet too slow for my emotions. Suddenly, I realized I was in front of Stowe Elementary. Lying on the grass, I contemplated my fate and wept for the loss of innocence.

Why me? I can't remember how long I rolled that highly unoriginal question in my head. By the time I had gotten up to begin the walk home, a walk I had taken a hundred times before in blissful childhood, I knew I needed to teach. I needed to teach not only my mother, but every ignorant soul that my sexuality was not horrible, but a beautiful gift - if not from their God - then from my God.

I found an incredible confidant in my senior AP English teacher, Mrs. Kay McCollum. In our assignments, I wrote about who I was. She responded with encouraging words. She was by far the most profoundly influential role model I ever had. All it took was a few simple words of praise, guidance and acceptance.

As a member of the East High Scroll, I wrote a letter for the last issue before graduation. It condemned those who had called names and encouraged everyone to be more sympathetic. Years later, younger classmates told me the article had given them hope.

In 1986, I graduated from East High School, ending a productive, yet unnecessarily difficult 13-year Des Moines Independent Community School District career. Of the 700 or so teenagers who entered as freshmen four years earlier, 375 received their diplomas.

I had succeeded. But behind the "I" was a mother and father who continued to unconditionally love me, a brother who acted as counselor, a lesbian best friend and a few teachers who, despite the gag order, were able to encourage me. Like Frank McCourt, I was lucky. Others in similar circumstances are not so blessed.

On Friday night soon after graduation, Sarah and I went to a movie. We pulled up to a Hy-Vee cash machine. As we were getting back into the car, four boys who we recognized as East classmates saw us.

"Hey! It's the queers!" one yelled.

"Get'em!" another screamed.

Sarah and I jumped into the car. An open can of soda hit the passenger window. I screamed while Sarah struggled to put the care in reverse. As we backed up, they surrounded the car, pounding on the roof, hood and windows. I thought the windows would break. Their words penetrated the glass: "Faggot!" "Lezzie!" "Homo!" "Dyke!"

"Drive!" I screamed.

Sarah was unable to get the car in first. For a moment, I thought the hyenas had captured their prey. Suddenly, the car lurched forward and Sarah sped out of the parking lot. We drove a few blocks and then Sarah pulled to the side of the road. We sat there hugging each other with heaving breaths and racing hearts.

"You know," Sarah whispered, "they hate us because of who we chose to love. That's what it's all about, love."

DISTANT ECHOES

I now teach English as a Second Language (ESL) at Windsor Elementary. I chose the Des Moines district because of its all-inclusive Educational Equity and Employment Statement. Plus, I wanted to give back to the community I grew up in.

I have been open with the school staffs I work with. They have been extremely accepting, understanding and supportive. My partner, Dan Bell, and I have attended functions outside the school and have been accorded the same respect given married couples. To this extent the district seems quite tolerant.

But, the hate of my childhood is still echoing through the halls. When I began teaching, I watched in horror as former school board member Jonathan Wilson was publicly lynched just because a curriculum committee thought it might be good to say something nice about gays and lesbians. I realized Des Moines was far from fulfilling its equity statement.

I have kids ask me all the time if I'm married, if I have a wife. I redirect them toward the lesson plan. After all, we're not supposed to be talking about me.

But some students press forward. Last year I taught ESL at Granger Elementary on the south side and Holy Family School at St. John's Basilica. In an activity between schools, students became pen pals. One afternoon, I handed out the letters to my Granger students. As part of the lesson, they read them aloud.

A student began to read. "Do you think Mr. Sewell is gay?" asked the pen pal in his letter. I was shocked into silence. The students laughed and giggled. I was angry at myself for not proofreading the letters.

After class, I took the letter to Mr. Fracek, Granger's principal. He told me to stop being a victim. He said it didn't matter whether I was gay or not. These were inappropriate questions to be asking. He suggested I develop a repertoire of pat answers and remain silent. Times were such that the issue couldn't be discussed openly, at least not in this district. He then sent for the students involved.

At that moment, it dawned on me. I am not equal in the classroom. I couldn't answer my students honestly, while the teacher I shared my room with sat across the way, using her and her husband as examples in her lessons. By remaining silent, am I still a victim?

A huge part of who I am cannot be talked about. An even larger part of history has been edited out of education because of man's fear of diversity. How can the hate words stop if the school district won't teach tolerance for all?

CITYVIEW, September 17, 1997
100 4th St., Des Moines, Iowa 50309
FAX (515) 288-0309
bpc@mail.commonlink.com

THE WONDER YEARS
Cruising the loop, virtual affairs and dodging beer bottles. Queer kids tell what it's like to be young and gay in Des Moines

By Andrea Simakis

Doug Jones "never had the guts to do it right." "It was kind of like Russian roulette. I'd take a whole bottle of pills and think, either it kills me or it doesn't"

Despite multiple suicide attempts, he didn't really want to die. He just wanted to stop feeling alone.

That Doug, tall and lanky with aquamarine eyes and close-cropped pink hair, is alive at 20 is a sweet surprise.

He is a poster boy for all that ails gay youth. Raised in small-town Centerville, Doug never got along with his family and had few "friend friends." His wardrobe by the Sex Pistols and corrosive wit put him in the freak category as it was. "I never got beat up because people thought I was crazy."

He fought it for the longest time. "The last thing I needed was to be gay." He came out to the sound of bottles hitting pavement, tossed from passing cars, shouts of "faggot" dopplering through the air.

He never intended word to travel so fast. He’d only shared his secret with a few confidants, but they "all had big mouths and it's a little town - everybody knew."

Regulars of the fast food joint where he worked told management they didn't want him touching their meals or making change. Doug was demoted to bussing tables of cold fries and spilled soda.

He rushed to tell his parents before someone else did. But when he gave the Joneses the news, it strained the already frayed filial cords. Eventually, the 17-year-old wound up sacked out in a motel. Alone again.

THE NUMBERS

According to the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, nearly 30 percent of gay youth who come out to their parents are forced to leave home. For years it was also thought that gay kids were two to three times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual peers. In August, researchers at the University of Minnesota, working from a sample of teens in grades seven through 12, argued the numbers were much higher.

The first study to compare straight and gay students, the Minnesota Adolescent Health Survey found that young gay men are seven times more likely to attempt suicide than heterosexual boys. Bisexual and lesbian girls tried to kill themselves, or at least thought about it, at rates only slightly higher than straight girls.

Coming of age is hard enough. Pimples and sweaty palms. Unrequited crushes, awkward bodies, fat thighs. Coming out is even harder.

Forty-five percent of gay males and 20 percent of lesbian females, reports the Hetrick Martin Institute, experience verbal and physical assault in high school. Twenty-eight percent are forced to drop out because of harassment from their classmates.

The icy climate in the schools is slow to thaw. Despite a non-discrimination policy on the books, kids in Des Moines' high schools still report getting hazed and tormented while teachers do nothing.

Cara Kidd, who knew she was "definitely gay" after kissing a girl in seventh grade, thinks it's more acceptable for women to be queer than men.

"In high school, boys are all pretty much horned toads. They're all typical males. If two females are together, big deal. It's just a kinky thing. If two guys are together, it's sick."

Cara was one of the popular crowd at East High School. Voted homecoming queen in ninth grade. Captain of the tennis team. Dance squad. Here family was "totally awesome" when she announced she was gay at 15. Now, "My mom tries to get girls' numbers for me. I swear to God."

Similarly, Cara came out at school to little fanfare. "Every now and then, guys would call me a dyke. I think they were just jealous because I had their girlfriends. The people that I cared about accepted me, and that's all that mattered."

THE WASTELAND

For every gay pride march and positive queer character on TV, there are dozens of toxic images -- the pedophile cruising the Internet for lonely boys, the park pervert, the squat, angry dyke. The stereotypes don't fit teens' view of themselves. They search for role models. Mentors and surrogate parents. People living real lives.

At 15, Sarah Mondt became obsessed with Melissa Etheridge. She still owns three copies of the singer's ode to coming out, "Yes I am." Sarah adopted the nickname "Superdyke" midway through her sophomore year at Lincoln. Painfully shy, she "really didn't have any friends." Superdyke is her alter ego - the strong, outgoing part of herself. The person she wants to be. "I think I like her better," Sarah says.

She began collecting buttons - "Dyke Power," "Mother Nature is a Lesbian," "Another Friend of Ellen's" - and affixing them to her green backpack. Now an 18-year-old student at DMACC, she still caries it. She likes the witty sayings and open statements of pride. But it also serves as a portable personal ad. "You never know who may see my buttons and come up to me - maybe even an attractive lesbian."

Sarah has never had a girlfriend. Her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm afraid I never will."

There are few spots for gay teens and young adults to safely gather and meet. While they admit Des Moines isn't a hot spot for anyone under 30, underage dance clubs or bars that feature dry teen nights are off-limits. A gaggle of queer kids get stared at and are given the cold shoulder by the straight crowd.

Ross Wallace, a 16-year-old who sings tenor in the Matins Choir at Plymouth Church, isn't the club kid type. His grade point at Lincoln hovers between a 3.5 and 4.0. His extracurricular activities keep him busy every night of the week. Among other things, Ross is a member of student council, sits on Polk County's Peer Review Court and is president of the computer club.

"I'm a very careful person," says Ross, who gingerly cracked open the closet door last May. Asking someone out isn't an option. Unless "they are flaming queens, you have no way to tell for sure. What if you're wrong?" So he connects in cyberspace, posting his vital statistics and resume, spending hours in chat rooms.

The Net comes in handy he says, especially in the Midwest. "I can be gay on-line, because I always have the option of flipping the switch and disappearing. It's like a masquerade ball - you can ask people anything."

THE LOOP

The Des Moines Youth Alliance, the only group in the state exclusively for gay, lesbian and bisexual teens, sponsors monthly dances, movie nights and weekly group meetings. Kids say the relatively sparse calendar of events is not enough to fill their dance cards.

The only other option is to break out the fake Ids and mingle with adults. "The major teenage places in gay society are the Garden, the bars and the loop," says Doug Jones. "And none of them are the best environment for a kid to be in anyway."

Doug knows the scene well. He came to Des Moines to escape the homophobic petri dish that Centerville had become. But he wound up homeless and practically living on the gay loop - an outdoor spot known as a place to cruise for anonymous sex.

"I was used so much when I got here," Doug says. "Part of that was my own fault, part of it wasn't." For a boy who never belonged, fitting in meant saying "yes," even when he meant "no".

"When I came out, I didn't know any gay people. The ones I met used me for sex. I didn't know anything, I didn't know how to act. I think when you're young, you need a teacher - not in a perverted way like a sex teacher."

Living on the fringes and finding acceptance in the seats of parked cars is no way to build self-esteem. And recently, the loop has become a favorite spot of bay bashers and yahoos. Although kids are usually safe when they gather in large groups, they are routinely pelted with eggs and shot at with BB guns. Their wheels are vandalized; windows are shattered and paint jobs ruined. An enterprising bigot sprayed "faggot" along the side of one unoccupied coupe. A teenage drag queen was pulled from her car and beaten into the hospital.

"I think the main reason everybody goes down there is because there's absolutely nowhere else for us to go and actually be gay and not have to hide", says 17-year-old Andy Martin.

They want a place of their own. "You don't see straight kids getting beat up every weekend," says Joey Potter, an Urbandale graduate. The answer, they believe, is a teen center, like the one they recently visited during a Youth Alliance field trip to Minneapolis. District 202 is a space complete with dance floor, DJ, performance stage and espresso bar. Open most weekdays from 2-11 p.m. and until 1 a.m. on the weekends, it is a social gathering place that also offers drug counseling, HIV and STD education and support groups.

"We owe a lot to the adult gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender community here for helping us get started," says program director Kirsten Gerber. Support from both the queer and straight community put District 202 on the map. Without the backing of the city's core gay leadership, however, District 202 would still be a blueprint. This is something Stacie Kagan and her Youth Alliance co-facilitator, Mark Signs, know. They have been fighting to rally the troops in Des Moines for more than a year.

"Des Moines does have an adult gay and lesbian community," says Signs. "Parts of it are pretty out and vocal, but the majority of it is very closeted and quiet.

"It's risky, especially if you're in a professional position - to come out as gay and lesbian. They're not advocating for themselves, so why in the world would they be doing it for kids?"

John Schmacker, president of the Gay and Lesbian Resource Center admits "there is a screaming need" for a District 202 in Des Moines. "We've got gay and lesbian kids experiencing levels of emotional isolation that straight kids can't even imagine."

Initially, the GLRC opened its doors in the mid-80s to serve gay youth. But paranoia over being perceived as "recruiting" straight kids into a mythological gay army hobbled the group. Today, kids say the GLRC offers them little more than a spot to play video games and watch movies in a cramped space. Fewer and fewer teens make the trek to the East 5th Avenue office sandwiched between Blazing Saddles and a body piercing place. "I just don't think anybody is interested anymore because the center itself has lost interest in the youth," says Cara.

Schmacker isn't blind. He knows most kids are being left in the cold. "We have been talking about it for a long time. If we had money, we'd do it ourselves. There are quite a few mainstream organizations that are willing to help ... but they don't want to give the money to a gay or lesbian organization. There is an underlying level of homophobia that hurts funding."

Until funds materialize, kids will continue to flock to the loop. Maybe the next generation will do their elders one better. "I think there's a stronger youth community in Des Moines," says Doug. "We're getting older and we care enough to raise money for these kids, because we've been there."